Changeling Poetry
Victory comes late -- by Emily Dickinson Victory comes late -- And is held low to freezing lips -- Too rapt with frost To take it -- How sweet it would have tasted -- Just a Drop -- Was God so economical? His Table's spread too high for Us -- Unless We dine on tiptoe -- Crumbs -- fit such little mouths -- Cherries -- suit Robbins -- The Eagle's Golden Breakfast strangles -- Them -- God keep His Oath to Sparrows -- Who of little Love -- know how to starve -- Fog Portrait by Carl Sandburg RINGS of iron gray smoke; a woman’s steel face … looking … looking. Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a taffy mass down the wind; layers of soot on the top deck; a taffrail … and a woman’s steel face … looking … looking. Cliffs challenge humped; sudden arcs form on a gull’s wing in the storm’s vortex; miles of white horses plow through a stony beach; stars, clear sky, and everywhere free climbers calling; and a woman’s steel face … looking … looking … The Dream Called Life by Edward Fitzgerald From the Spanish of Pedro Calderon de la Barca A dream it was in which I found myself. And you that hail me now, then hailed me king, In a brave palace that was all my own, Within, and all without it, mine; until, Drunk with excess of majesty and pride, Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide That of myself I burst the glittering bubble Which my ambition had about me blown, And all again was darkness. Such a dream As this, in which I may be walking now, Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows, Who make believe to listen; but anon Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel, Aye, even with all your airy theatre, May flit into the air you seem to rend With acclamations, leaving me to wake In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake From this that waking is; or this and that, Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt Confounds and clouds our moral life about. But whether wake or dreaming, this I know, How dreamwise human glories come and go; Whose momentary tenure not to break, Walking as one who knows he soon may wake, So fairly carry the full cup, so well Disordered insolence and passion quell, That there be nothing after to upbraid Dreamer or doer in the part he played; Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell, Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day, When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away. We dream -- it is good we are dreaming -- by Emily Dickinson We dream -- it is good we are dreaming -- It would hurt us -- were we awake -- But since it is playing -- kill us, And we are playing -- shriek -- What harm? Men die -- externally -- It is a truth -- of Blood -- But we -- are dying in Drama -- And Drama -- is never dead -- Cautious -- We jar each other -- And either -- open the eyes -- Lest the Phantasm -- prove the Mistake -- And the livid Surprise Cool us to Shafts of Granite -- With just an Age -- and Name -- And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian -- It's prudenter -- to dream -- The Land Of Dreams by William Blake Awake, awake my little Boy! Thou wast thy Mother's only joy: Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake! thy Father does thee keep. "O, what land is the Land of Dreams? What are its mountains, and what are its streams? O Father, I saw my Mother there, Among the lillies by waters fair. Among the lambs clothed in white She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn— O when shall I return again?" Dear child, I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams; But though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side. "Father, O Father, what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far Above the light of the Morning Star." 'Evil Eyes' by Silent Stalker As I walk into the room And feel abrupt, impending doom I look around, and all I see Are evil eyes staring at me I cannot run; I cannot hide I keep my thoughts and fears inside I look again, and now I see The evil eyes approaching me I try again to find a hole A way to free my frightened soul I turn around, and now I see The evil eyes on top of me I'm frantic now to find a path Why do they seek to deal me wrath? I cannot move; I cannot see The evil eyes have conquered me My legs are ripped; my arms are torn My conscience weak; my soul is worn I think aloud, "why must this be?" The evil eyes now killing me... The Fairy Changeling by Dora Sigerson Shorter Dermod O'Byrne of Omah town In his garden strode up and down; He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast; And this is his trouble and woe confessed: "The good-folk came in the night, and they Have stolen my bonny wean away; Have put in his place a changeling, A weashy, weakly, wizen thing! "From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole, And lighting a fire of a glowing coal, I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk; But never a word the stranger spoke: "A bar of metal I heated red To frighten the fairy from its bed, To put in the place of this fretting wean My own bright beautiful boy again. "But my wife had hidden it in her arms, And cried 'For shame!' on my fairy charms; She sobs, with the strange child on her breast: 'I love the weak, wee babe the best!'" To Dermod O'Byrne's, the tale to hear, The neighbours came from far and near: Outside his gate, in the long boreen, They crossed themselves, and said between Their muttered prayers, "He has no luck! For sure the woman is fairy-struck, To leave her child a fairy guest, And love the weak, wee wean the best!" The Ballad Of The Fairy Thorn-Tree by Dora Sigerson Shorter This is an evil night to go, my sister, To the fairy-tree across the fairy rath, Will you not wait till Hallow Eve is over? For many are the dangers in your path! I may not wait till Hallow Eve is over, I shall be there before the night is fled, For, brother, I am weary for my lover, And I must see him once, alive or dead. I've prayed to heaven, but it would not listen, I'll call thrice in the devil's name to-night, Be it a live man that shall come to hear me, Or but a corpse, all clad in snowy white. * * * * * She had drawn on her silken hose and garter, Her crimson petticoat was kilted high, She trod her way amid the bog and brambles, Until the fairy-tree she stood near-by. When first she cried the devil's name so loudly She listened, but she heard no sound at all; When twice she cried, she thought from out the darkness She heard the echo of a light footfall. When last she cried her voice came in a whisper, She trembled in her loneliness and fright; Before her stood a shrouded, mighty figure, In sombre garments blacker than the night. "And if you be my own true love," she questioned, "I fear you! Speak you quickly unto me." "O'', ''I am not your own true love," it answered, "He drifts without a grave upon the sea." "If he be dead, then gladly will I follow Down the black stairs of death into the grave." "Your lover calls you for a place to rest him From the eternal tossing of the wave." "I'll make my love a bed both wide and hollow, A grave wherein we both may ever sleep." "What give you for his body fair and slender, To draw it from the dangers of the deep?" "I'll give you both my silver comb and earrings, I'll give you all my little treasure store." "I will but take what living thing comes forward, The first to meet you, passing to your door." "O may my little dog be first to meet me, So loose my lover from your dreaded hold." "What will you give me for the heart that loved you, The heart that I hold chained and frozen cold?" "My own betrothed ring I give you gladly, My ring of pearls--and every one a tear!" "I will but have what other living creature That second in your pathway shall appear." "To buy this heart, to warm my love to living, I pray my pony meet me on return." "And now, for his young soul what will you give me, His soul that night and day doth fret and burn?" "You will not have my silver comb and earrings, You will not have my ring of precious stone; O, nothing have I left to promise to you, But give my soul to buy him back his own." All woefully she wept, and stepping homeward, Bemoaned aloud her dark and cruel fate; "O, come," she cried, "my little dog to meet me, And you, my horse, be browsing at the gate." Right hastily she pushed by bush and bramble, Chased by a fear that made her footsteps fleet, And as she ran she met her little brother, Then her old father coming her to meet. "O brother, little brother," cried she weeping, "Well you said of fairy-tree beware, For precious things are bought and sold ere mid-night, On Hallow-eve, by those who barter there." She went alone into the little chapel, And knelt before the holy virgin's shrine, Saying, "Mother Mary, pray you for me, To save those two most gentle souls of thine." And as she prayed, behold the holy statue Spoke to her, saying, "Little can I aid, God's ways are just, and you have dared to question His judgment on this soul you bought--and paid." "For that one soul, your father and your brother, Your own immortal life you bartered; then, Yet one chance is allowed--your sure repentance, Give back his heart you made to live again." "For these two souls--my father and my brother-- I give his heart back into death's cold land, Never again to warm his dead, sweet body, Or beat to madness underneath my hand." "And for your soul--to save it from its sorrow, You must drive back his soul into the night, Back into righteous punishment and justice, Or lose your chance of everlasting light." "O, never shall I drive him back to anguish, My soul shall suffer, letting his go free." She rose, and weeping, left the little chapel, Went forward blindly till she reached the sea. She dug a grave within the surf and shingle, A dark, cold bed, made very deep and wide, She laid her down all stiff and stretched for burial, Right in the pathway of the rising tide. First tossed into her waiting arms the restless Loud waves, a woman very grey and cold, Within her bed she stood upright so quickly, And loosed her fingers from the dead hands' hold. The second who upon her heart had rested From out the storm, a baby chill and stark, With one long sob she drew it on her bosom, Then thrust it out again into the dark. The last who came so slow was her own lover, She kissed his icy face on cheek and chin, "O cold shall be your house to-night, beloved, O cold the bed that we must sleep within. "And heavy, heavy, on our lips so faithful And on our hearts, shall lie our own roof-tree." And as she spoke the bitter tears were falling On his still face, all salter than the sea. "And oh," she said, "if for a little moment You knew, my cold, dead love, that I was by, That my soul goes into the utter darkness When yours comes forth--and mine goes in to die." And as she wept she kissed his frozen forehead, Laid her warm lips upon his mouth so chill, With no response--and then the waters flowing Into their grave, grew heavy, deep and still. * * * * * And so, 'tis said, if to that fairy thorn-tree You dare to go, you see her ghost so lone, She prays for love of her that you will aid her, And give your soul to buy her back her own. All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkein :All that is gold does not glitter, :Not all those who wander are lost; :The old that is strong does not wither, :Deep roots are not reached by the frost. :From the ashes a fire shall be woken, :A light from the shadows shall spring; :Renewed shall be blade that was broken, :The crownless again shall be king.